Garage sale, Saturday, I need to pay
My heart's outstanding bills
A cracked up compass and a pocket watch
Some plastic daffodils
Cutlery and coffee cups I stole
From all-night restaurants
A sense of wonder, only slightly used
A year or two to haunt you in the dark
- The Weakerthans

I used to tell Jen that I thought about her every waking moment, many of my sleeping moments, and a few of the moments that didn't exist. And I did; I thought about her all the time. I never knew how not to, though. I don't understand how people can love incompletely, how they can keep it from consuming, in a wonderful way, their entire existence. I'm naive, of course-- I'll be the first to admit to that. I think beauty exists in every moment; I think, to a somewhat significant extent, we can choose to be happy and content; I think perfection exists in our minds alone; I think love actually is all around us.

Sometimes, I like to pretend that I'm bitter. But I'm not, really. I've tried to become bitter-- why, I can't imagine. It's not me, though. I'm cynical, yes, but mostly to mask my exuberance and optimism-- my little defense against people who might think I'm a sucker. Because I am. I am such a sucker. I am a bit like Gimpel the Fool.

I am Gimpel the fool. I don't think myself a fool. On the contrary. But that's what folks call me. They gave me the name while I was still in school. I had seven names in all: imbecile, donkey, flax-head, dope, flump, ninny, and fool. The last name stuck. What did my foolishness consist of? I was easy to take in.
- Isaac Bashevis Singer, "Gimpel the Fool"

Gimpel the Fool was naive, for sure. But, he explains, how could he not be? How could he, who was so optimistic and trusting, not believe people? How could he know, for certain, that he didn't see shadows in the dark, or that his child wasn't premature? How could he know, for certain, that honestly didn't permeate the world? And even if he had become more cautious, less trusting, more bitter, would he have been better off? He argues, at the end of his life, that he wouldn't. He had faith, and optimism, and trust in others. He was fooled a great many times, but in the end, he was happy. Happiness, as the Dalai Lama points out, is not the means to an end, but rather an end-- the end-- in of itself. Gimpel the Fool spent his entire life being derided by others. He was too trusting, too naive, too foolish. Ha! If only I could be Gimpel the Fool.

I thought about Jen all the time. And, of course, I needn't stay in the past tense. I think about her all the time. It's not that I think there's been some kind of mistake or that I'm having some sort of bad dream. It's not that I think she'll change her mind or change her heart. It's not that I'm still hoping for something that isn't there. But maybe I am. Maybe. I am. A little, subconsciously, even though I try so hard not to. I lay awake at night, going over every little word, every little gesture, every little look. I get up and check my email, knowing there won't be anything there, but not being able to not check. It's the year or two that haunts me in the dark.

Time passes. Things get better with time. Things are better. Or maybe I'm just pretending they are. Or maybe I'm just pretending to pretend they are.

These things, these thoughts, these feelings-- I don't like sharing them with others; I don't want to talk about them, I don't want to write about them, I don't want people to know I have them, hold them, still. They're not special, they're not unique, and they're not of great concern. Hearts are broken everyday. Sometimes, we break them on purpose; sometimes, we break them on accident; sometimes, they just break.

Jen was wonderful for a myriad of reasons. She gave me hope when I was running short. She made me laugh when nothing else could. She inspired me with confidence, and showed me that I had some of my own. I wouldn't trade anything that happened for the world, and I don't regret any of the time I spent with her, or for her, or because of her. That time was perfect, and I miss that perfection.

Sometimes, things just happen and hearts just break. I feel guilty for thinking, once in a while, that I'm unlucky that that happened to me. I feel angry with myself for thinking that I'd be better off if I could blame Jen for something, be angry with her over something, convince myself that somehow she broke my heart.

What the fuck? Things are too good and I'm pissed about that? I've learned, changed, grown and I'm pissed about that? My life is so much better and happier and more complete than it was six months ago and I'm pissed about that? What the hell kind of fucked up world am I trying to live in? What the hell kind of fucked up world am I trying to create for myself?

And it's strange, it really is, these fucked up realities we sometimes create for ourselves. How I try to push off, mitigate, relegate all these other good things that have happened over the last few months, the good things that are still happening. How I've been happy, and am happy, and then try to pretend it's all a facade.

This is my bitterness. This is my facade. How I try to pretend I'll miss Jen forever. How I try to pretend I'll love her forever. How I try to pretend that starting over is impossible.

Hey, I've found the safest place to keep all our tenderness
To keep all those bad ideas, to keep all our hope
It's here in the smallest bones: the feet and the inner ear
It's such an enormous thing to walk and to listen
- The Weakerthans

I've been trying to find the words for the last three weeks-- the words that shape me, the words that explain me, the words that make me whole. I couldn't find those words. I couldn't figure out how to get from where I was to where I want to be. I was stuck not wanting to check my email at 3am, but not knowing what else to do. Over the past few days, I've spent a lot of time walking and listening. And it is an enormous thing. The things I see, the things I hear, the things I think about-- they all remind me why I'm not bitter, but hopelessly optimistic, why Gimpel wasn't flawed, but gifted.

I miss Jen. I miss her witty comments, her obsession with Martin Sheen, and her Chicago accent. I still miss her, but like how I miss my other friends that aren't around much anymore, because old friends are always missed. I love Jen. I love how she made me feel, how she was a good person, and how she inspired me to do things I wouldn't have otherwise done. I still love her, but like how I love all the people I've loved before, because love isn't predicated on romantic possibilities.

"Two guys have ascended five miles into the sky. They walked up a wall of ice and are preparing to knock on the door of heaven itself. There's really no limit to what we can do. You know what the trick is? Get in the game."
- Natalie, Sports Night

Starting over seems impossible at times. How it takes so long to trust someone enough to say hi, takes so long to learn the new details and particulars and factoids, takes so long to assuage the overwhelming fear I have of human interaction. It's hard to start over. And it gets harder every time. But it's not impossible; it can't be. People have such capacity for accomplishment, such capacity for growth, such capacity for love. People have such capacity for creating new beginnings.

Did I pick these streets, or were they the only ones plowed? If the sun rose and the snow melted and I saw them for what they were, would I still want to walk along here?

Do stars dim because they are anxious about the light they provide? If they grow old, or tired, or worse, where does that leave us?

Does the future supplant the past? Are we disks of ferrite-coated ceramic, waiting patiently to be spun until we are dizzy, and altered so that yesterday never happened?

Is it worth it to examine and contemplate the meanings of the meanings of these words that we hold? Is it worth it to feel this way at all?

Those are the questions I ask, in some form or another, every time. Always the same questions, always the same doubts-- and, until I met Jen, always the same answer: I don't know. Eliot's Prufrock asked if it would be worthwhile, after all: after all the joy, all the sadness, and all the pain, after the talk of marmalade and the talk of tea, after the talk of you and the talk of me, after everything. Would it be worth is, after all, or would we wind up by the window, saying "This is not it, this is not what I meant at all." Mr. Prufrock drowned in the sea of human voices, drowned in his inability to escape his disillusionment. He said it wasn't worthwhile, after all.

He was wrong.